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 Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris

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PostSubject: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Sun 22 Sep 2013, 18:21

Sylvester knelt before the might of the gathered Get of Fenris. As soon as he had entered their island sanctuary, he had been surrounded by the hulking warforms of the Fenrir. The inlet smelled like salt and blood, both clotted and fresh. A full moon rose over the tops of the clustered trees, illuminating the shallow sandbar choked cove that they stood in, the waves lapping nearly up to his neck.

"This lost one wishes to become a child of Great Fenris." The werewolf directly ahead slowly growled out the words from between massive fangs, his grey-white hide crisscrossed with scars. His name was Robert Swift-Death, and he was the one who had scented Sly the moment he had stepped off the steamer at Galveston port. "He has traveled far to become one with the heedless storm. This shows commitment; but is it enough? Is this child worthy of the patronage of Fenrisúlfr?"

One of the warriors behind Sylvester came plowing through the surf and snatched at the young Garou's lank hair, trying to pull his head back and expose his throat. Sly did not have time to think or reason: his anger and surprise gave him strength and speed, and he bucked, shifting into the shape of a hulking wolf and slipping from the grasp of his attacker. Amid the ocean water and moonlight, Sly's eyes shone, twin points of burning fury as he whirled to face his attacker. A white-coated Crinos roared a challenge, and indicated with its claws that the pup should back down and roll over, its inhuman face wearing a sneer of contempt.

Like Hell Sylvester snarled, and he leaped at the larger Garou, fangs flashing like steel bayonets. The Get was prepared for this, and he held up his forearm as a shield, letting his coarse matted hair bear the brunt of Sly's onslaught. What he was not prepared for was for the pup to shift again so rapidly: Sly's form blurred and ran like mercury, and his stature grew, his teeth biting deeper in his enemy. The Get attempted to shake the young werewolf loose, but Sly raised both of his feet and hit his enemy in the chest with a savage double kick, knocking his opponent into the surf. The Get gurgled and bellowed in pain as dark blood wafted through the water. Before Sly could press his advantage the monster surged upright, bleeding from gouge wounds in his collarbone, sea spray and foam streaming from his snapping jaws.


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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Mon 23 Sep 2013, 01:23

"Enough." Swift-Death appeared between the two warriors, his hands holding tight on the shoulders of both. His voice was soft but clearly audible over the rush of the tides. "You don't seem completely worthless, lost one. We might be able to use you."

The bloodied Garou uttered a low whine of disappointment and loped away from Sly as a different werewolf stepped forward alongside Swift-Death. She was tall like the others, her stern lupine features both noble and untameably savage. Her silver fur was dark with seawater but the few places he could see skin were carved with deep runic inscriptions. Her voice was a low, easy growl: "We are at war, whelp; but you know this already. You can feel it, a painful, fundamental truth burning in your gut. The world is being torn apart, and our enemies rise up on every side. Evil spirits claw at the veil between worlds, longing to make their dark dreams reality. The innumerable masses of mankind threaten to trample all before them. Our brethren tribes grow slow and impotent, unable to keep the enemies of Gaia at bay."

It might have just been flecks of ocean spray, but Sly thought he saw tears of rage in Swift-Death's eyes as the werewolf turned his face from the moon to look at the initiate. "Salts-The-Wound speaks the truth, lost one. Peace is beyond hope. It is only by the valor of the Fenrir and the strength of Great Fenris himself that the end has not come already."

The Garou leader's grip on Sly's shoulder tightened, and the pup had to force himself not to wince as Swift-Death's sharp claws dug deep into his skin. "If you wish to become one of us, you must demonstrate your persistence and hatred for the foes of Gaia. The task we set before you is simple but not easy: an Urrah, a cursed fallen Garou, has abandoned her kind and fled north and east. Track her down, subdue her, and bring her to us."

Salts-The-Wound nodded, her growled words taking on a strangely pious quality. "Answer the call to arms that is your birthright. Join the war and earn your place among the Get of Fenris." Then she tossed back her head and howled, and the rest of the Fenrir lifted up their voices, filling the coastal night with their song of pride and hate.
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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Mon 23 Sep 2013, 17:41

Sylvester stood in the surf, still staring down his attacker. He'd had a hard journey down the Mississippi and along the Gulf Coast, but once he thought he'd learned enough from what was left of his family he'd been ready to move on. Almost as if by an act of providence, the very same day he'd finally mastered shapeshifting he'd gotten a letter in the mail. When Ma read it to him he found out he'd been awarded a tract of land out in Texas. He'd never wanted to go to Texas, but His brother had and it was as good as any other place to get away from the cowards he'd been raised by.

He'd been found as soon as he made port in Galveston and after he'd broken a couple of bandits in town he'd been approached and told to be here tonight. So here he was, already bloodied and wanting nothing more than to see if he could go toe to toe with some of these other monsters.

Now this is how it should be!

He shifted his glare to Salts-The-Wound, snarling and baring his fangs eagerly at the thought of the hunt.

"Ya I'll put the bitch down. Reckon it's alright if'n I just bring her head? Or do y'all want a new throwrug?"

He chuckled to himself before letting out his own howl to sound the hunt, filling the night with bloodlust and righteous fury, eager to begin.
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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Tue 24 Sep 2013, 10:22

Swift-Death's eyes flashed and the hulking Crinos bared his fangs in warning. He brought his scarred face close to Sylvester's, his voice a low rumble. "Killing another pup is easy for those of Fenris' blood. No, whelp, your task is to be more challenging: you must subdue her and bring her back alive. The Urrah's mind might be twisted, but she may yet see the error of her ways before the end. I will determine if she is still worthy of giving her life for Gaia."

"Now, I don't care if you have to hogtie her and saw off her legs, but she must be brought to me alive. That is your challenge. Do this, and you will be a child of Great Fenris."  

Salts-The-Wounds wordlessly threw a shredded pair of leggings and a shirtsleeve to the young Garou. The tattered cloth smelled like machine grease and old sweat, but the faint underlying scent of lavender was also present. Swift-Death continued: "This isn't going to be easy, so don't speak as though she were in your claws already, Sylvester Clemons." The Fenrir alpha's lips curled into a sneer as he said the human name with obvious disdain. "The Urrah left heading north along the coastline, three days ago. If Gaia is merciful, her scent has not been washed away by the tide."
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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Tue 24 Sep 2013, 17:27

Sylvester tried to hide his disappointment that he was forbidden from killing his prey, but a dejected whimper still got out. Still, he sniffed eagerly at the tattered clothing and was able to pick out the scent. He turned his snout to the North, again growing eager for the hunt.

"Hogtied with her legs sawed off huh? Always wondered if that were possible."

He chuckled as he bounded off into the surf, howling to sound the hunt and crashing into the waves as he swam to the mainland. Upon reaching shore, he blitzed into the treeline, still in Crinos form crashing through smaller trees and rending the ground beneath his claws as he sniffed the air and after searching for a while caught his prey's scent.

Maybe I'll act nice at first and then catch her by surprise. She'd be more likely to try and fight like that probably. Then maybe I can kill her and that ol' fleabag will have to let me in anyways. After all, it was self defense and all.

His form melted again mid stride, and in a moment a huge hulking dire wolf bounded through the forest with renewed vigor, eager to give chase.
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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Fri 27 Sep 2013, 16:07

By morning's light, Sylvester had reached the end of the rocky peninsula and rejoined the wooded coastline. The going had been slow, but now the Get neophyte was confident he was on the right path. The Urrah’s tracks continued steadily north, but then another scent stirred in Sylvester's nostrils: a foul wind blowing from the west carried the heavy scent of scorched flesh and death, and even at this distance he could hear desperate howls of fury and hate.

Making a note of his position, the hulking wolf turned away from the dunes and moved inland, following a rough fisherman path due west. Gradually, the coastal forest gave way to fetid lowlands pockmarked with bayous. Along the path he finds an ancient petrified tree, marked deeply with old eroded claw marks. Sylvester turned off the path and made his way toward where he thought he had heard the howls, pushing his way stealthily through the wet undergrowth.

The early morning sun was low in the sky, still too weak to kill the dreamlike fog that curled up and around the boughs of the sagging trees. The scent of burning skin intensified, and Sylvester saw a ramshackle cabin slouching in the mist. He carefully approached, he saw that the pinewood door had been torn off its hinges. In the smoky half-light he could just make out a mangled form splayed on the floor. Nosing his way inside, it took a moment for Sylvester to realize that he was staring at a once-human body. The corpse lay in the center of the room, propped up on his knees, the ribs broken at the spine, flaring outward like bloody wings. Close inspection revealed that the man’s body, and his bones in particular, were riddled with tumors, and that hot glowing coals had been dumped into his chest cavity.

The ritually slain man-thing lay amid the shambles of what had once been his cabin. The place looked as if it had been subjected to a stamped. The only intact item was a mask nailed high on the opposite wall. It appeared to be a crudely stitched canine mask, the mouth and eye sockets smeared with dried blood, its muzzle and eyes sagging and empty. Sylvester stalked over and took it off the wall, holding it in his teeth. He didn't know why, but the mask somehow felt significant.

At this point, something tall, hunched and utterly silent lurched past the mouth of the hut. It was only in Sly’s peripheral vision, but he snapped his head around, trying to catch the scent of the furtive being. He realized that the air had suddenly changed. The swamp doesn’t smell like algae and rotting leaves and breeding mosquitoes anymore. It stank of broken bones decomposing in mud, of feverish sweat, and a unique bouquet that Sylvester slowly realized was vast quantities of saliva mixing with blood. The sky had changed too- now the hazy light of the sun was gone, replaced by a brown glare that failed to pierce the gloom and illuminated nothing.

A howled battlecry echoed across the darkened marsh, this time much closer. As Sly continued into the alien swamp, he felt unseen eyes watching him. A path opened up in the mist ahead, curving between great sagging trees, heading gently and inevitably downward.

Too easy. Sly sneered. Something in this haunted place wanted him to head straight toward whoever was howling, and even though the young werewolf was spoiling for a fight, there was no way he was going to run blindly towards his enemies. Carefully, the large white wolf skirted the path and headed straight into the marsh, padding through stagnant water and over fallen trees.

Away from the trail the earth became uneven, small rolling mounds interspersed with pools of still water or mouldering piles of fungal rot. The mist was thick and oppressive, and Sylvester thought he saw tall shapes walking alongside him on the edges of perception. Without warning, the soggy ground at his feet opened up and he plunged into warm, slimy water. The sinkhole was deep, and his paws couldn't touch bottom. Something stiff and soft pressed up against him, and in the chaotic swirl of underwater twilight he saw the rictus grin of a dead man, his old mottled skin still bearing the deep etches of tribal tattoos, his belly and outstretched arms bloated and putrescent.

Sylvester lashed out, batting the lifeless human wreckage aside as he churned upward through the water and hauled himself out of the flooded pit, gasping and snorting. Before him was another small hillock, but its summit had been hollowed out into the shape of a shallow man-sized hole. Sylvester approached with caution, and he padded lightly up to the pit to avoid any further collapses. Inside was the corpse of a man, powerfully built, his body strangely incorrupt and preserved, almost mummified. His body bore similar designs to the rotten corpse, lines of power traced along his face, chest and shoulders. At his head rested a pair of brown clay jars. One was broken and dry, but the other was still sealed with some sort of yellow wax. The young Garou shifted back to homid form and tentatively opened it and gave it a sniff. It was warm and bitter and pungent, like a heavy tea. Sylvester decided to take it with him and as he stood, still clutching the pot, he realized that he was not alone.

The tallest native Sylvester had ever seen stood at the foot of the grave, his darkened skin criss-crossed with glinting tattoos eerily similar to those of the corpse at his feet. The ghostly giant's face was immobile, but his black eyes radiated distance and quiet anger. He regarded Sylvester with stern calm, before striding off into the mist, his passing unmarked by either scent or sound. Another howl rose up out of the cursed swamp ahead, and Sylvester continued on, his pace quickening.

Sylvester realized that the trees around him had gradually become naked lifeless trunks, while the few that still lived had grown hoary and monstrous. Ahead the forest fell away, into an open clearing filled with roiling shadows.
The werewolf squelched his growing unease and strode into the clearing. Two tall petrified trees, stripped of their ancient branches, marked the entrance to a circular series of burial mounds beyond. Both pillars of stone were covered with countless claw-inscribed runes that Sylvester could not decipher. A final roared howl filled with stubborn anger and hate issued out of the darkness accompanied by a low, sibilant hissing that washed across the young Garou like a foul breeze.

The werewolf snarled and shifted into Crinos. The sounds of battle drew nearer, but he took a moment to stand between the two stone trees and drag his claws across each, sharpening his natural weapons.

"What do we have here?!" A Garou wearing a glabro form came thundering out of the enshrouded tombs. His silver hair was wild and long, matted with blood. He was built like a bear, and his neck and chest were a tangled lattice of battle scars. In one hand he held a jagged iron knife, and in the other hand he clutched a massive, severed foreleg, covered with rot and filth. The old Garou pointed this wretched limb at Sylvester like a sword. "I don't know who you are son, but I hope you aren't afraid to get your claws wet." Then he howled, a harsh, long sound that seemed deeper and more sonorous than any of the howls Sylvester had heard earlier.

FINALLY rumbled Sylvester as the hissing filled his ears.
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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Mon 30 Sep 2013, 12:28

The murk vomited out a writhing nightmare, a spirit in the shape of a mammoth fish propelled fitfully on scrambling mass of rotting human legs that protruded from gaping wounds in its ribcage. The monstrosity was longer than a steamboat, its eyes cloudy and sunken. Corruption flowed from its long fanged mouth and injuries, staining the once-hallowed ground of the ancient Caern while a miasma of evil spirits danced in its wake.

Sylvester's new companion shifted to Crinos as he roared his battlecry, his form blurring into that of a hulking man-wolf covered in rugged scar tissue. Sylvester, however, simply hurled himself at the oncoming pile of squamous rot. The vile spirit shuddered and spat out a torrent of wriggling parasitic spirits, but Sylvester was too fast. He leaped over the twisted gar spirit's gaping, dripping jaws and landed on its back, and with a roar of fury tore out a great stinking chunk the thing's spine. The hissing noises heightened into a shrieking wail and a swarm of lesser worm-like spirits boiled up out of the fresh wound, enveloping Sylvester in a foul cloud filled with gnawing teeth. Sylvester grit his fangs as the tiny spirits bit into his flesh and attempted to burrow into his body.

With a bellowed yell of warning, the other Garou hurled his knife toward the gouge wound Sylvester had made, but as the glinting blade flew past the young werewolf snagged it midair and began frantically stabbing down into the thrashing gar. The weapon felt heavy and inert despite its keen edge, however, and Sylvester was forced to leap clear of the festering spirit beast before the swarming throng of biting worms shredded him. He backed away toward the petrified gateway of the burial mounds as the elder werewolf tore apart the undulating bane cloud that the gar had flung at them. The massive leviathan crawled closer, still dripping liquid corruption, and the elder laughed grimly, gesturing at the leg he had severed prior to Sylvester's arrival.

HARD TO KILL SOMETHING THAT'S ALREADY DEAD, AIN'T IT? The words came out half chuckle, half snarl.

Sylvester nodded. He wanted to rend the festering horror limb from bloated limb, but it was gigantic, filled to bursting with a legion of ravenous bane spirits. The beast convulsed and retched forth another swirling mass of worms, and as the elder leaped to meet them, Sylvester bent and picked up the pot of black liquid he had taken from the open burial mound. He glanced from the artifact to the monster, and then wound up to hurl it into the dread creature's piscine face.


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PostSubject: Re: Rites of Passage: Get of Fenris   Sat 19 Apr 2014, 17:41

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Sylvester whirled around to face the source of the new voice. It was a cowboy in a dusty brown coat and wide leather hat, leaning against one of the petrified trees as he lit up a coffin nail with a match. Otherworldly yellow eyes gleamed out from beneath the brim of the hat, regarding the young Garou with a mischievous spark.

"Now, usually I leave the business of killin' things to the experts. But since you're pretty new to this I'll give you a hint. What you got there ain't meant to be thrown. It's meant to be drunk. Lemme put it this way: trust a Spirit to know a spirit."

He winked an alien eye at the young Garou as Sylvester regarded his jar, then the battling Elder and Gar. The Elder was fighting like a monster, but obviously losing his strength. He had dozens of small wounds and simply couldn't move fast enough to avoid the hundreds of Banes to get to the Gar its self.

Sylvester turned again to the stranger by the petrified tree. The stranger raised a coffee tin he'd pulled out of somewhere in a toast.

"Cheers, Mr. Clemons."

He didn't know why, but Sylvester trusted this Spirit. His mind made up, he tore the top off the small jar and downed the contents in two quick swallows.

Bitter, fiery rage poured into Sylvester. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before; the concoction was vile and tasted of hate, but as he drank he felt himself filled with the strength of a thousand full moons. It surged from his mouth to his belly into his mind in a fraction of a second, demanding an outlet. He had to move, kill, rend the world and hear his enemies scream! He felt like he was steering an out of control buffalo charging over a cliff as he screamed in abject rage, jumping straight from his small hilltop to land in front of the Gar. He couldn't hear anything. Everything he saw was tinged in red as he soared over the Elder to land in front of the spirit Gar, urged still to slash, tear, bite, maim, rend the gar

He screamed again, drowning out the Gar's hissing with his own battle cry. Then all in an instant, he jumped forward into the maw of the beast even as it bit at him. He caught its jaws in his claws, tearing away the lower jaw and using it as a club as he tore his way into the best its self. Sylvester could feel his muscles bulging, splitting and tearing his skin as they grew and increased his strength. He didn't care.

Sylvester was now standing fully inside the best as it writhed and screamed around him. He knew it was trying to escape, but there was no getting away now. His jawbone club snapped against a rib as he swung it, so he dropped it and became a whirling dervish of claws and fangs, even using the knife to tear and bite at everything he could reach as he burrowed further into the best. A sound caught his ear, and he instinctively clawed his way towards it. Breaking through a wall of corrupted grey tissue, Sylvester saw the Gar's heart as big as his head beating before him, coated in an oily sheen and tumors. He caught the organ in his jaws, bursting it as black ichor and stale blood ran down his jaws. The Gar's thrashing finally stopped, and Sylvester felt the surge of energy leave him as the shredded organ dropped from his jaws. Suddenly exhausted, Sylvester marched his way out of the cavernous maw the way he'd come, towards the now clean light of day.

As he stepped out of the carcass it dissolved away and the swamp around him seemed to bleed back into a healthy woodland. The buzz of insects returned, daylight filtering between the trees and the smell of wet wood filled the air again. Sylvester dropped to his knees, catching his breath as he shifted back into Homid. He was still coated in what seemed like buckets of ichor and fish blood.

"HAHA! Holy Hell boy! That was the finest display I ever seen!"

The Elder, now shifting to a homid in rugged trousers and a simple shirt, trotted up to Sylvester, clapping him on the shoulder in spite of the bloody mess coating him. Sylvester looked up at him, chuckling as he held the Elder's knife up handle first.

"Thanks, mister. I reckon this is yours. Thanks for lettin' me borrow it."

The Elder barked out another laugh as he took the knife, hanging it from his belt.

"You got a name, boy? What pack do you run with?"

"Name's Sylvester Clemons. I don't really run with no pack jest yet. I's on my way to my Rite of Passage."

The Elder stepped back in shock.

"Sylvester Clemons?! The Hell kinda name is that! Nobody who can put up that kind of fight is gonna go around with a name like a human's while I'm around. Your name is a part of you as a Garou, boy, and you pick your own after you earn it."

Trying to hide his embarrassment, Sylvester scratched at his chin and mumbled to himself as he considered the Elder's words. Then inspiration struck, and he came to his feet holding out a hand to the Elder to shake.

"Call me Rends the Gar. Pleased to meet ya."

Nodding in approval, the Elder gave a firm handshake.

"The pleasure's mine, Rends the Gar. I'm Roaring Jack."

Sylvester was suddenly nervous. He'd heard that name. This was one of the oldest, most powerful Garou in the South West. And he was a Get of Fenris.

Roaring Jack scratched his chin, considering the pup.

"Now what's this I hear about a Rite of Passage? You ain't got a Tribe yet?"

Rends the Gar shook his head.

"No sir. I left home 'afore I could join one cuz they wasn't nothin' there for me. When I got to Galveston, first thing I did was look for the local Get but they found me first. Sent me out to find some runnaway pup and bring her back for judgement. I was on my way there when I seen you and the Gar. Thought I'd join the fun."

Roaring Jack let out another laugh, grabbing the knife from his belt and holding it up to Rends the Gar.

"Well good thing for both of us you did. I think I'll save you some time, though. I name you, Rends the Gar, one of the Get of Fenris. Take this as proof, and with my thanks."

Rends puffed his chest in pride, taking the knife and shaking Roaring Jack's hand again.

"Thank ya, Mr. Roarin' Jack. I's still gonna head North though. I aim to see the job done regardless."

Jack slapped him on the back again as they both turned to the North.

"Of course, boy. Man's gotta keep his word. As it happens, my business takes me a ways North, so I figure we can travel together for a time. You seem like you're pretty new to our ways, so I'll fill you in on what it is to be Garou along the way."

As they started walking, Roaring Jack regarded Rends the Gar again, weighing him in his deep dark eyes.

"Keep your wits about you and I think you'll do just fine among the Fenrir, boy. Yes sir, you'll do just fine..."

Rends couldn't help smiling as he scraped ichor and blood off his clothing and hair. Looking over his shoulder, he caught a last glimpse of the Stranger leaning against the petrified tree. The Stranger raised his coffee tin again in toast to Rends, favoring him with a wink. Rends blinked, and the Stranger was gone. Turning back around, he smiled again.

"Hell, I'm jest gettin' started..."
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